


Don't let me in, I don't know what I'd do

by dulcepericulum (keziahrain)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (he just doesn't know it yet), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Billy Hargrove is a Mess, Driving, Family Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Neglect, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, Oblivious Steve Harrington, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overthinking, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Season/Series 02, Protective Steve Harrington, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Billy Hargrove, Undercommunicating, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keziahrain/pseuds/dulcepericulum
Summary: Steve Harrington, engaged in his own unconventional extracurricular activities, discovers something shocking about Billy Hargrove's.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Original Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 64
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Roses are Falling" by Orville Peck.
> 
> Beta'd by my loving and indulgent husband, who doesn't know ST but is an excellent editor. 
> 
> Story will include abuse and consent issues (not between Steve and Billy). Underage tag because Billy is 17. Please proceed with caution & take care. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve knows that engine.

It’s the day after Christmas, and Steve’s hunting monsters. 

He’d like to think he’s being heroic, but mostly he needs a reason to get out of the house over break. It’s weird having his parents there, filling the space with their colognes and bitter “not arguments, just discussions.” His dad clearly can’t wait to leave; he takes his calls on his goofy lunch-box Nokia phone, avoiding the landline so his mom can’t listen in. 

It will be a relief when their marriage drama retreats to the condo in Chicago, where they spend most of their time these days. 

Steve tells his parents he’s hanging out with Nancy. They don’t know about the breakup. It’s just easier. His dad would only grimace over his scotch and mutter, “I didn’t expect you to hold onto a girl like that, son.” 

Steve simply cannot deal with it. Not after his parents’ reaction to learning their kid had been pulverized by a high school bully in November. He could see it in their eyes when they picked him up from the ER. _Since when are we the parents of the victim?_

Good thing they never found out about last year’s fight with Jonathan. Their son getting his ass kicked by the town loser would really throw them for a loop. 

Knowing that said loser also got the girl in the end? Steve’s parents would probably disown him. Or they might say, _Who are you, and where is our real son?_ Like Steve has been possessed, or perhaps secretly swapped out for an inferior model. 

He remembers Billy Hargrove on the basketball court, what feels like a million years ago: _I heard you used to run this school, that true?_

Steve’s not been himself for a long time. 

So yeah, daily monster patrol gets him out of the house. Not only that, it gives him a purpose. He mostly believes Hopper’s declaration that El closed The Gate. That tiny girl is terrifying, as is Hopper. 

But it’s not a bad idea to do a little follow-up, right? Steve suspects that the other people involved, kid and adult alike, would think him foolish for worrying. What does famous moron Steve Harrington know? But it’s not like anyone here is an expert on interdimensional portals – not even Dustin, despite how that kid talks. 

So, Steve has established a regimen of sorts since school ended for the semester. After sleeping in late and eating breakfast, he gathers up his supplies (nail bat, flashlight, snacks), hops in the Beemer, and drives around Hawkins. Just keeping an eye out. Monitoring for signs of unusual activity. He has a standard route with checkpoints, selected for their previous significance to the Upside-Down or general creepiness. 

The Quarry. Merrill's pumpkin patch. The abandoned lab (as close as he can get). Brimborn Steel Works. Various woods-adjacent locales. The train tracks where he and Tommy used to mess around as kids despite repeated warnings from Tommy’s Mom. That decaying playground on the far side of town where stoners sometimes hang out. 

Steve makes sure to hit them all, sometimes lingering, sometimes not. Depending on the day’s pace, the patrol might take him well into the evening. It’s important to study the hotspots, as he thinks of them, in both the light and the dark. He feels more observant that way, more attuned to details. Occasionally, he walks around, bat at the ready, trying not to slip on ice while checking behind trees and poking at shadows. Other times, he stays in his car, turns off the engine, and just watches til the chill seeps in. 

He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for – other than a horrific plant-monster crashing through a rip in the universe – but he figures he’ll know it when he sees it?

On the day after Christmas, Hawkins does its best impression of unremarkable. There’s a hush over everything, a stillness, as most people remain tucked inside. 

Steve knows better. Something definitely isn’t right. Even more than usual. He can just sense it, like a tickle in his throat forecasting a virus. 

He’s been taking his drive slowly, deliberately, with long stakeouts at the hotspots. Currently, he’s stationed in his car at the west edge of the burnout playground. He’s on edge, fixed to this spot, unable to move on. A harsh wind animates the rusted swing set and the ancient seesaw, like ghost children at play. It’s just after 5:30, winter twilight, meaning it will soon get bitter fucking cold. 

Steve’s already shivering; he really should get going. He reaches for his keys in the ignition, looking forward to a blast of heat, when a sound stops him. The roar of a car engine. 

He knows that engine. 

The rumble of that engine is imprinted in his memory, along with a pounding head, a throbbing bloody nose, and the vision of dweeby little faces above him. 

Sure enough, there it is, unmistakable even in the rapidly failing light: Billy Hargrove’s blue Chevy Camaro, parking kitty corner to Steve’s BMW across the small playground. 

_Oh, shit. Oh, SHIT. OHSHIT!_

Steve’s heart gallops inside him. Is he about to get the crap kicked out of him _again_? He sinks lower in his seat, urgently rationalizing with himself. Did Billy follow him? Unlikely. Steve’s been here for almost twenty minutes, and it’s been as silent as a graveyard. Can Billy see him? Probably not, unless the guy has night vision. Dusk is falling fast. He can’t really see Billy, only a vague dark shape in the driver’s seat. 

Then: a tiny, pinprick glow, the cherry of a cigarette. 

Other than this, there is no real action from that side of the frozen mulch. The Camaro’s headlights turn off but the engine remains running, reducing to a steady purr. 

Steve’s heart begins to calm. He’s fairly certain that Billy has no idea someone else is here. There are several cars parked around the playground, likely holiday overflow from the residences one block over. Why would one of these cars be occupied at this deserted hour? Why would someone sit alone in their car in freezing cold weather and not even turn it on?  
  


_Because the engine might scare away the monsters_ , Steve explains to the deepening shadows. _The quiet will lure them out._

Steve can’t leave – can’t do anything – without making his presence known. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to do _that_. It irritates Steve to be caught, once again, in a tense standoff with Billy Hargrove, even if Billy is an unknowing participant. What is it with this guy? What is his damage anyway? Why can’t he just leave Steve alone?

OK, truthfully, Billy has been leaving Steve alone. Ever since the November incident, it seems like Billy has been carefully pretending that Steve’s not there at all. They’re in different grades, so that’s easy enough, but they see each other all the time at basketball and the arcade. Steve has been helping out Mrs. Henderson by picking up Dustin after school, and Billy is always carting Max around. At first, Steve was grateful for the space, especially while his bruises were healing. 

But lately, Billy’s avoidance has grown inconvenient, almost comical. Coach yells at them all the time for fumbling plays because Billy won’t go near Steve. And after school, waiting in their cars for the kids to emerge from A/V club, Steve finds himself trying to make eye contact. It’s oddly frustrating how completely Billy ignores him. The guy beat Steve up, and now he won’t even acknowledge Steve’s existence? It seems like an extra layer of unfairness in an already deeply stupid situation. Steve never asked for a rival. 

If anything, in an alternate universe, he and Billy might’ve been friends instead of… whatever they are. 

And Steve could use a friend right about now. 

Another car engine interrupts Steve’s reverie. He blinks with surprise at the appearance of a big family station wagon, the kind that always has three or four kids spilling out. There are no kids in there, he thinks, just the driver. Definitely male, judging by the size of the shadow behind the wheel. The wagon parks in front of the Camaro, headlights flipping off but engine staying on. Moments later, Billy kills the Camaro’s engine and gets out. 

Steve is reminded instantly of the day Billy and Max showed up at school. 

Billy had stomped out of that car and _everybody_ stared, including Steve. You can’t _not_ stare at Billy Hargrove. The way he moves, the lines of his body, it’s just – you can’t look away. Billy’s just one of those people. 

Even through the dark, Steve’s eyes are glued to Billy’s figure as he walks to the front passenger side of the station wagon, opens the door, and slides in. 

Minutes pass. Steve tracks them on his Timex, careful to shield the dim glow of the watchface. He’s not taking any risks here. Time stretches like silly putty, and night settles heavily all around as Steve tries to imagine what’s happening in that car. 

Obviously it’s drugs. Is it weed or something harder? It’s difficult to picture Hargrove strung out on anything. He’s so obsessed with his looks, working out, showing off his body, always wanting to play skins at practice. Steve gets it – Billy’s a good-looking guy. Occasionally, though, Billy inexplicably insists on shirts; one time, he even picked a fight with Coach and got benched over it. Was he hiding something? Steve doesn’t really know how hardcore drugs work. 

Maybe he’s dealing. That’s probably it. Steve can’t help but be impressed. Dude’s been here like two months and already building an empire. 

Steve’s contemplating the entrepreneurial powers of Billy Hargrove when the station wagon door opens and the object of his thoughts gets out. It’s hard to see in the dark, but he discerns Billy approaching a municipal trash can near the swing set. The station wagon is already leaving. Steve guesses that Billy trashes something––why else would he go there?––before striding back to the Camaro and climbing in. 

There’s a pause. Steve realizes he’s holding his breath. 

Then the Camaro erupts to life and takes off with a screech of tires. 

As it disappears around the corner, Steve’s already moving. He doesn’t make the decision consciously; his body simply mobilizes, grabbing the flashlight and scrambling to unlock his car door. Though he’s trembling from the cold, he barely notices the snap of wind against his skin. He has one shameless focus: crossing through the playground, past the crumbling equipment, zeroing in on that trash can. 

And now he’s leaning right over it, his flashlight illuminating a grisly mound of waste, human and natural. This thing probably hasn’t been emptied in months. Thankfully, the deep freeze has killed any stench. Steve moves his light around, searching for…what? Drug paraphernalia? Evidence of a crime? A strong sense of mission brought him here, but now he feels bashful staring at old garbage. 

Then he clocks them. A few items on the surface of the pile that aren’t old or frozen over. Reality distorts like a bad TV signal before snapping back into place. 

It would never occur to Steve to look for such items at this moment, so perhaps it’s not surprising that his eyes slid right past them at first. 

Condoms. 

Used condoms. 

_Two_ used condoms. 

Two different sizes. 

(As an XL user himself, Steve notes these things.) 

And one small, crushed, open packet of lubricant. 

Steve stares at this tableau for a long, long time. He wants to close his eyes, to turn his head, to walk back to his car, but he can’t seem to take command of his legs. He keeps his flashlight trained on the contents of the trashcan like they’re on a stage, or a dissecting table. 

One of the condoms – the larger one – has faint streaks of blood on it. 

After an unknowable length of time, Steve suddenly understands how fucking cold he is. He can’t feel his feet or hands or nose. 

He can’t really feel his brain either. 

Something finally unlocks. He rushes back to his car, desperate for the first time in a long time to get home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is on the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: Steve engages in some stalking while he figures out his feelings about Billy. He lacks insight for a while. Endgame is (relatively) non-toxic Harringrove, though.
> 
> Please continue to watch for updated tags/warnings. Thank you for the encouragement. <3 
> 
> And here, have some tropes.

Steve’s embraces the most sacred of Harrington family coping mechanisms: denial.

Monster patrol is abandoned for a week of haunting his parents like a friendly ghost. His dad, working at the coffee table with the TV on, looks up occasionally and seems vaguely surprised to see his son draped over the loveseat. 

And when Steve’s eyeballs go numb, he relocates to the kitchen where his mom is performing her love language: cooking enormous freezer meals. Lasagna, chicken cacciatore, spinach-stuffed manicotti, Italian wedding soup: enough to sustain a small army, or one teenage boy left to his own devices. 

“What’s so fascinating about your mother chopping garlic, Stephen?” she complains, grabbing a wooden spoon and pushing the sizzling onions around the pan like they’ve offended her. “Are you feeling all right?” 

Parental bafflement is easy, _manageable_ , compared with the absolute fuckery Steve discovered out there. 

Whenever he dares recall what he found in the playground trash, Upside-Down-sized questions overwhelm him. And _feelings,_ like he’s jumped into a churning pool of shame, confusion, fear, and excitement. 

_Excitement?_

And then he’s bathing in shame again. 

The turmoil could keep Steve up all night if he allowed it. He knows this dizzy tune by heart, played it for _weeks_ after Barb died. As before, a stash of Mother’s Little Helper in the master bathroom saves the day. 

The pills blot out his racing thoughts. Sleep is a blank page but shit comes with the morning, when everything crashes back, a real half-remembered nightmare. 

Like a weary soldier, Steve fights valiantly to resist the memory of the…rubbers. Billy Hargrove’s used gay rubbers. When he lets his guard down they appear, perfectly recreated in his mind, spot-lit and moist in the beam of his flashlight. 

_NOPE._

He imagines slamming a lid on the trash can and pouring concrete over it to seal. Then burying it. _Yeah._ When that doesn’t banish the unwanted visuals, he sets his mental image of the trash on fire, then hoses it down with water and turns the ashes to paste. 

It’s simple, what he wants. He only wishes to _unsee_ these things, un-know their association with Billy Hargrove. 

If only he could talk himself out of this…information. This unbearable information that Billy Hargrove has sex with men. 

Men have sex with Billy Hargrove. 

Memories of Sunday school at his grandmother’s church drift through Steve’s inner landscape, the old story of forbidden knowledge and nakedness and God’s everlasting disappointment. Is this how Eve felt when she ate the apple and suddenly knew way too much? 

No. Steve’s situation is definitely worse. 

And look, for the record, Steve has fought actual _monsters_. Steve has fought monsters and _won_ , or at least avoided instant death. 

But damnit, if monsters aren’t more plausible than homosexuals in Hawkins, Indiana; more reality-based than _homosexuals_ who meet at dusk by abandoned playgrounds _to fuck in their cars._

_Especially_ when one of the homosexuals in question is Billy Hargrove, Prince of Pussy. 

Hasn’t Steve been a captive audience, along with the rest of the basketball team, to Billy’s peacocking in the locker room? And Tommy reporting on Hargrove’s weekend conquests like a sportscaster? The play-by-plays always strike Steve as credible enough. 

He knows what it’s like at the top of the food chain. 

And why _wouldn’t_ Billy get in the pants of every hot girl in Hawkins? He’s the best-looking guy at school. The best-looking person, really. Like he’s from Hollywood or something. 

Steve Harrington may be real small-town royalty, but Billy Hargrove could play King Steve in the movie and become an actual star. 

“Stephen! Pay attention!” his mom scolds. “Honestly, I don’t know where you go.”

“Sorry, Mom,” he apologizes, jumping back into the present. “Just thinking about how I’ll miss you.” 

Mrs. Harrington has summoned Steve to the foyer on New Year’s Day for another familiar routine: the Harringtons are leaving for Chicago. The kitchen, which spent days as a tomato sauce crime scene, has been returned to its pristine state by the cleaning service. Steve’s mom, too, has cleaned up: makeup, pumps, Mohair coat. 

“You can get away with anything, can’t you?” she says, maybe fondly. She reaches out to smooth his hair. “Just like your father.”

Steve’s dad is already loaded in the Benz with the luggage, preferring to outsource farewells to his wife. His mom is also a delegator, whenever possible, to nannies, housekeepers, high-end security systems. 

But she always makes sure to look Steve in the eye when they say goodbye. 

“We’ll be home in a few weeks,” she lies briskly. Her expression, as ever, is hard to read. “You know where to find us.” 

Also a lie: his parents often travel, together and apart, without notice. Two years ago, the hospital had to call the family lawyer when Steve was admitted for appendicitis. 

She slings her Coach tote over her arm, and they hug. Steve has to give this to his mom: she’s a really good hugger, somehow delivering vital communications with a single, tight squeeze. He inhales deeply, wishing he could keep her scent in his lungs forever. 

But he must let go. He must keep breathing. 

She’s off to live in her world, one that increasingly makes no sense to him. 

Meanwhile, Steve lives here––in bizarre-o land––where Dungeons & Dragons is a documentary, sad little girls are superheroes, his closest friend is 13 years old, and apparently—

_BILLY HARGROVE IS HOMOSEXUAL._

As his mom closes the front door, Steve catches his reflection in a hallway mirror. He resembles a frightened deer. 

_Come on, plant your feet, Pretty Boy. Draw a charge._

In a display of nerve, Steve resumes monster patrol that very afternoon. School returns next week; he can’t waste time losing his marbles over Billy. 

He resumes his post in the front seat of the BMW with grim obligation, nail bat propped in a cardboard box on the passenger side floor, providing quick access and preventing damage to his car’s interior. 

Try explaining _those_ scratches to his dad. 

It’s grounding to perform the usual circuit. Reorienting. Compared to the day after Christmas, the place is hopping––joggers on the sidewalks, cars on the roads––but the hotspots are reassuringly dull.

Steve remains amped, though. 

This is Hawkins. A town he thought he knew and loved––until the massive earthquake, the life-threatening disaster that only Steve and a few other people can even detect, let alone try to clean up. 

He tightens his hold on the wheel, noting the fading light. The days are lengthening but sunset is still early. 

No signs of monsters anywhere. 

No sign of a blue Camaro, either. 

He doesn’t plan it, but Steve arrives shortly before dusk at the burnout playground. He parks in the exact spot as the week before. Engine off. Lights out. Watching. Waiting. Wearing gloves this time, and, in a rare turn, a hat. The extra layers help him stay put for almost a half-hour. 

It’s way too empty here. 

Steve’s gut can’t decide: does he dread a new development––on any front––or does he _desire_ one so badly he could scream when nothing happens? 

When the light dies a complete death, Steve’s patience does too. 

Hands shaking slightly, he turns his car back on and slides into gear. He doesn’t have to think how to navigate to his next destination. Steve learned Hawkins young, on bike, just like Dustin and his friends. 

Those goobers. Steve’s their unofficial chauffeur now, and sometimes that includes Max. She asked for a ride home after school three weeks ago when Billy was absent. Steve’s face was still lumpy and tender then. When they turned onto Old Cherry Road, he wondered aloud whether his self-appointed nemesis was home sick or playing hooky. Dustin, no fan of Billy’s, scowled in the front seat. 

“Why do you want to know?” Max said sharply from the back. A quick glance in the rearview captured a familiar glare. Billy and Max: living proof that siblings don’t have to be blood-related. 

“OK, got it, we don’t like talking about Billy in this car. Message received,” Steve laughed awkwardly. “You know I can get behind that.” 

“Sure,” Max answered, voice flat. “Thanks for the ride, Steve.” She grabbed her backpack and dashed to her house, not a glance back. 

Now, for reasons he can’t fully explain, Steve is again parked opposite the modest Hargrove-Mayfield bungalow. 

It’s like he blinked and found himself here. 

The time is 6:18 but feels like midnight, the street dark and muted after yet another holiday. Following protocol, Steve cuts his headlamps and engine. His eyes adjust to the shadows. And there it is: the elusive blue Chevy Camaro, occupying a spot right in front of the house, the dim streetlights glinting in its finish. 

_Gotcha._

Where does Billy drive in that thing? Did he go driving at all _today_? How frequently do the Camaro and the station wagon hook up? Does he see anybody else? An Oldsmobile, perhaps, or a Buick? For an unhinged moment, Steve pictures the the vehicles themselves having sex––Matchbox cars smashed together by giant, invisible hands.

_It’s still easier to imagine than… Billy…_

There in his car, Steve has a flash of memory: another leather seat, his parents’ designer sofa, Steve leaning back, Nancy poised delicately between his legs, her head bobbing over his crotch. Wishing she’d suck faster, deeper… not wanting to scare her… 

In a flash, Steve’s mind replaces Nancy’s soft brown curls with dirty blond ones. He widens his knees to accommodate the broad shoulders of Billy Hargrove, looking like he did the first time he showed up at school, wary and hungry as a feral cat. 

Billy pins Steve with amused blue eyes, then lowers his thick lashes. Now he’s bowing his head, as in prayer, pink lips dragging against Steve’s… 

_Holy shit._

Steve’s hard. 

Automatically, he reaches toward his lap, then falters, hovering. His traitor dick senses a helping hand nearby and strains against the unforgiving denim of his Calvins. 

Does he dare rub one out? What would that mean? 

Steve stops functioning entirely for a minute, his whole operation short-circuiting, when a loud clatter nearly gives him a heart attack and certainly kills his boner. 

The source of the disturbance is obvious: the Hargrove-Mayfield residence, as Billy bangs through the screen porch and front door and charges down the front path. An instant later, the door slams open again, revealing an older man of similar size and build to Billy. 

That can only be Max’s stepfather. Billy’s dad. Voice raised, stern, full of command, exact wording absorbed by the BMW’s expensive windows and tight seal. Father and son bound across the lawn, colliding at the driver’s side of Billy’s car. Between the darkness and the Camaro in the way, Steve can’t tell exactly what’s happening—but he can guess. 

A brief scuffle, a thump, possibly a grunt. Billy’s figure thrashes, while Mr. Hargrove is eerily controlled. 

Then Mr. Hargrove sends Billy stumbling toward the front door, barking at his back. Steve doesn’t need the words to catch the tone: mean, unbending. 

It’s the tone of someone who expects to be obeyed; who has no doubt compliance will be secured. 

And Billy…submits. He allows his father to march him back toward the house.

Steve remembers words bellowed in his face in November, on the longest night of his life:

_Nobody tells me what to do!_

Steve remembers hanging in Billy’s arms by his jacket. Billy laughing, having the time of his life, face painted with blood. Next: the head-butting and the tossing on the floor, then Steve on his back, straddled by thick thighs. 

Steve remembers the rain of punches, the sickening crunch of his nose. 

Steve remembers struggling under Billy, realizing that the laughter has stopped. _Now this dickhead is crying?!_

Steve remembers wanting to reach up, grab at Billy, but he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even breathe—

There’s a knock on the window next to Steve’s head, interrupting his half-brewed panic attack. 

“Open up, son.” 

By some miracle, he doesn’t piss himself right then. 

_Get a grip. GET A GRIP._

Being his parents’ only child and battling interdimensional monsters does provide a person with a few life skills, namely: Fake it til you make it, or figure out how to kill it. In one swift motion, Steve catches his breath, turns on the car, rolls down the window, and beholds the humorless, severely tidy face of Mr. Hargrove. 

“Oh hi, Sir,” Steve greets. Light, pleasant. “What’s up?”

Mr. Hargrove squints at him. 

“What’s your business here, young man?” 

Steve thinks fast and gestures vaguely. 

“I was studying at Lucy Donaldson’s house. On my way now.”

He knows for a fact that Lucy Donaldson lives somewhere on Old Cherry, right around here. In eighth grade, he took her to the Snow Ball, felt her up behind the bleachers, and then held hands with her in the backseat while his mom drove them home. They never spoke again. 

With any luck, Mr. Hargrove won’t attempt to verify this alibi. 

“And you’re sitting in your car in the dark because...?” 

Steve has learned over the years that a morsel of truth is more effective than a seven-course lie. 

“Yeah, ha ha. I kinda get lost in my head sometimes,” he admits. “When I’m tired, like after––um––lots of studying. I completely space out. You could send a herd of elephants by, I’d miss it. Drives my mom crazy.” 

“And who is your mother?”

“Linda Harrington.” 

Steve can see the name hit its target. Mr. Hargrove’s eyebrows shoot up. She may not be around much anymore, but Steve bets a person can’t move to Hawkins and avoid hearing about town sweetheart Linda Harrington, née Rossi. Miss Indiana 1963 herself, eldest daughter of a tragically deceased state senator. She did some modeling and world travel, married her wealthy college beau, and then settled down to raise a child in her beloved hometown. 

That’s the official bio, anyway.

Everyone loves her. 

“And what’s your name?” Mr. Hargrove asks, more at ease. 

“Steve. My dad is John. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s president of Harrington Industries?” 

He says it like a question, almost like he’s uncertain of the answer, knowing that Mr. Hargrove is surely aware of his dad’s company, a large regional employer. It earns him a curt nod. 

“Are you in my son Billy’s grade?” 

Steve does what comes naturally: he plays dumb. 

“Billy... Hargrove? The new kid?”

Mr. Hargrove nods again, and Steve holds his flinty gaze. On an instinctual level, he understands he should downplay his history with Billy. 

_Half-truths._

“No, I’m a senior. He joined the basketball team, though. So maybe I’ll get to know him there.” 

He offers this politely, dutifully, _blandly_ , exactly like a nice teen from the most envied and respected family in town would. Like of course he doesn’t _mean_ it but it’s the right thing to say. 

Mr. Hargrove sighs like the most burdened man on earth. 

“Billy could use a friend like you, I have no doubt,” he tells Steve. “But trust me, my boy has some growing up to do. He’s still learning the concepts of respect and responsibility. I’d advise you to steer clear of him.” 

And _…what?_

An uncomfortable pause follows. 

Steve’s at a loss. What exactly is the etiquette for this kind of fucked up situation? Since when do parents talk about their kids to _other kids_ like this? Can he leave yet? He’s wondering if he can just drive away when Mr. Hargrove reaches _into the car_ and places a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Head home now, Steve,” he orders, not unkindly, which makes it worse. “I’m sure your parents are expecting you for dinner. Don’t make them worry.”

Steve tries not to giggle hysterically. 

With that, Billy’s dad pivots and heads back into the house, his warning echoing in Steve’s mind. 

_I’d advise you to steer clear of him._

_Yeah, thanks for the heads up, Pops. Too fucking late now._

Steve shifts into first gear and eases off the clutch, feeling strangely like he got away with something huge. 

He’s not sure what it’s worth, or why it feels so important, but Steve knows Billy Hargrove way better than that jackass.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New intel brings more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic language, including f-word.

“You know Billy Hargrove?”

Steve rolls his eyes and toys with the plastic straw in his milkbox. There are so many ways he could answer that question. 

“Yeah, he’s kinda hard to miss.” 

Tammy Thompson sticks her tongue out at him. Steve thinks that she thinks she’s flirting. 

Maybe sitting with her was a bad idea. But Tommy and Carol still get on his nerves, and Jonathan and Nancy are spending lunch break making out in the darkroom. Tammy is pretty, popular, and into him. 

The holy trinity of socializing for the once and future King Steve, right? 

Then why is he so bored? This is the first interesting thing Tammy’s said all period, and she knows it. She leans forward, dropping her voice, inviting Steve to lean closer too. He relents, taking in the sweet, waxy scent of her makeup. 

“Well, guess what: he got caught trying to sneak into Kimberly Howard’s bedroom last night,” she says. 

“ _What_?! You’re fucking kidding me.” 

Tammy rears back at this response, which might have come across a bit strong. She doesn’t know what Steve knows about Billy Hargrove. 

_No one_ here knows what Steve knows. That awareness has been blowing his mind since returning to school four days ago. 

He hasn’t seen Billy much––they don’t share any classes and practice hasn’t resumed yet. But Steve catches glimpses of him in the hallways and the parking lot after school. 

He expects Billy to appear different in the daylight, especially through the lens of Steve’s new data about him. 

But Mr. California Transplant is acting exactly the same: laughing too loud, talking back to adults, and looking generally murderous. Looking… like Billy, wearing the same stupid tight jeans and motorcycle boots and single dangly earring. 

Nothing about this screams _QUEER_ to Steve, but what does he know? 

On the first day of the new semester, Billy also sported a brand new accessory: a fading shiner under his left brow. Steve has a hard time swallowing the rumor going around, that Billy fought someone from another school. 

“I’m just surprised Kimberly would go for Billy,” he offers to explain his overreaction as Tammy eyes him. “Her family’s like super religious.” 

“She didn’t!” Tammy exclaims. “I mean, she didn’t even know he was into her. But he turned up at her house last night! She caught him under her window.”

Steve’s brain struggles to digest this news. 

“What did she do?” 

“She screamed, duh! This is Saint Kim we’re talking about. She wouldn’t know a dick if one hit her in the eye. So of course her dad comes running.”

“What did _he_ do?” Steve asks, wincing; he’s fortunate to have eluded the angry fathers of Hawkins thanks to his ninja-like stealth. 

“Nothing!” 

“Really?” That’s a surprise. Mr. Howard serves on the school board and is always getting mad about what’s being taught in sex ed. In other words, the exact type to grab a rifle to defend his daughter’s virtue. 

“Yeah. It’s weird, actually, the way she told it,” Tammy says after a beat. She pokes a fork at the half-eaten square of pizza on her tray. “I guess Billy tried to jump the fence, but her dad caught him. She thought for sure he would call the police or beat the shit out of Billy. And her dad’s huge, you know? But he let Billy go. Opened the back gate for him and everything.” 

“ _Huh_?” That doesn't sound right. 

“Yeah. Kimberly saw the whole thing from her window. Afterward, her dad told her to stay away from Billy, that he’s just a messed-up kid.” 

Echoes of Billy’s own father saying basically the same thing to Steve. 

Did Mr. Howard _recognize_ Billy or something? Is he that infamous around town? 

Then the bell rings. 

As he returns his tray, Steve can’t stop thinking about Tammy’s story. Once upon a time, he would’ve thought Billy was an idiot for pulling a stunt like that, but a damn lucky one. Mr. Howard’s act of mercy is out of character, but stranger things have happened in Hawkins. 

After the revelations of winter break, however, Steve is mainly confused. Who is Billy Hargrove, anyway? The suave ladykiller of the locker room? The secret queer hooking up with other secret queers? Or a douchebag trying to fuck Kimberly Howard, who wears a _promise ring_ from her _parents_ , by randomly showing up outside her bedroom on a Wednesday night? 

None of this adds up. 

It’s like Steve is trying to put together a puzzle, but he keeps finding new pieces. And he’s missing the box with the cover that shows what the finished product should look like.

A little voice in Steve’s head—honestly, it belongs to Nancy—wonders why he’s so obsessed with the jerk who gave him a concussion two months ago. He should probably take everyone’s advice and ignore Billy for the duration of high school. 

That’s what Billy himself acts like he wants, judging by the wide berth he’s given Steve since the fight. 

But one thing is for certain: the Billy Hargrove that everyone _thinks_ they know is a lie. This epiphany has Steve questioning everything he’s been taking for granted, including the fundamental assumption that Billy Hargrove hates Steve Harrington. 

In fact, a wild thought occurred to Steve the night before as he lay in bed, waiting for the Valium to kick in:

What if the part of Billy that likes dick actually _likes_ Steve? 

Steve’s dumb about a lot of things but he’s fluent in teenage hormones. It’s kind of his area of expertise. He’s aware of the way many girls his age react to him, sometimes when he’s not even trying. 

Maybe Billy also reacts. To Steve. 

It would probably explain a lot. 

He’s been reviewing their past interactions. Billy’s bewildering behavior—the constant harassment, the staring, the nicknames, the excessive physical contact on the court—were they all symptoms of a _crush_? 

There’s probably something wrong with Steve that he’s not freaking out more, not recoiling at the idea of Billy’s faggy attention. 

Maybe it feels nice to imagine himself being wanted, especially so intensely, after the whole Nancy debacle. 

And, like, everybody wants to be Billy or to do him; why wouldn’t it be flattering to be wanted by a guy like that? 

Steve’s dad always accuses him of being vain like his mother, the beauty queen. 

  
  


* * * 

After lunch with Tammy, questions about Billy continue to haunt Steve, fueling him all the way through the end of the school day; several teachers yell at him for daydreaming. 

“Harrington.”

Steve nearly chokes on his cigarette. He’s leaning against his car in the middle school parking lot, waiting on Dustin, when Billy materializes next to him out of nowhere. 

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Steve mutters when he finishes coughing.

“I said your name like three times,” Billy shrugs, all casual for someone who is breaking a weeks-long campaign of avoidance. 

They regard each other for a moment. Steve senses a change in the air, a new sharpness. Nervously, he pulls his pack out and offers a smoke. 

Billy looks mildly surprised but accepts, placing the cig between his lips. His eyelashes are double fans against his smooth skin. Steve hands over his Zippo, which snaps as Billy lights up, one-handed, before handing it back. 

“Got a question for you, King Steve,” Billy says on the exhale. Smoke floats out of his nostrils, giving the impression of a dragon at rest.

“OK.”

It seems like almost anything could happen next. 

“Why the hell is my dad talking about you?”

Steve is _such_ an idiot. He should’ve seen this coming. 

“He’s acting like he _knows_ you, or something,” Billy continues. He’s calm, but in a slightly threatening way. “Have you met my dad, Harrington?” 

Well, fuck. What can he do? Lying to Billy didn’t end so hot at the Byers’ house. Steve may as well offer the closest thing to truth that won’t get his ass kicked. 

“Yeah, I did. He thought I was, like, loitering in your neighborhood over break. Tried to give me a hard time.” He pauses, then takes a calculated risk. “No offense, but your old man is a total asshole.” 

Silence. Staring. _Oh, no._

But then Billy laughs—and not his demented hyena laugh. A genuine one that Steve’s never witnessed before. 

“Oh, you noticed? Yeah, Neil’s a real treat,” Billy says cheerfully. “He was impressed with you, Pretty Boy.” 

“Gross. What did he say?” 

Now Billy scowls and some edge returns. 

“Some bullshit about your nice fucking family, and how I should try to follow your example, because you’re such a _respectable_ , _responsible_ young man.” 

Those words again––Mr. Hargrove has a real hard-on for that stuff. Billy sounds pissed. Steve can taste that bitterness in his own mouth, feeling annoyed to have been cast in some deluded object lesson. 

“That is 100-percent bullshit,” he agrees. Once again, he only speaks truthfully. “If I didn’t look exactly like my parents, they’d assume I was switched at birth. I am _not_ their ideal son, trust me. I think I actually kind of embarrass them.”

The words are out of Steve’s mouth before their rawness hits him. He’s had these thoughts about his family before but never imagined saying out loud to anyone, let alone his official enemy. 

Maybe it’s because he knows so much about Billy, and Billy isn’t even aware of it. It’s only fair to try and balance the scale a little. 

Steve worries, for a second, that Billy will take this offering and strangle him with it. But Billy merely stares appraisingly, then says: “That why you didn’t throw me under the bus?” 

Is Billy talking about the gay sex? He can’t be talking about the gay sex. He doesn’t know that Steve knows about the gay sex. 

Steve’s confusion must be written all over his face because Billy snorts. 

“I beat the absolute shit out of you!” he half-yells. 

“Keep it down! There are kids around!” Steve is blushing. “And, yes, I know. I was there.”

“So why didn’t you tell my dad? Or go to the police?” Billy demands. He seems genuinely confounded and a little outraged, which Steve is starting to guess means he’s scared. “You’ve had dirt on me this whole time.” 

_You have no idea, buddy._

How should Steve answer? 

The night that El closed The Gate was…a chaotic mess, to the say the least. 

The fight with Billy, though awful and intense, turned out to be less awful and intense than what followed. Compared with monster dogs and death tunnels and almost biffing his assignment to protect the little shits, a high school blowhard felt like the least of Steve’s problems. 

And the logistics of getting Billy in trouble seemed like way more trouble than they were worth, especially given that no one wanted civilian scrutiny on El, the Byers, or any events of that night. 

So Steve didn’t snitch, despite his parents’ meltdown at Hawkins General. His dad couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to get beat up, and his mom couldn’t believe the sorry state of his face. Both wanted justice; both lost interest within a week. 

And by the time Steve met Mr. Hargrove, well—Steve’s image of Billy had shifted so radically in such a short period of time. It didn’t even occur to him that he wielded _any_ kind of power, that he had Billy on the ropes.

He was way too distracted by the homosexuality and the asshole dad. 

“I guess I had other shit on my mind,” Steve eventually admits in the end. 

Billy drags skeptically on his cigarette, as if frustrated by Steve's audacity to have considerations other than Billy Hargrove. 

Then he snarls, “Are you looking for an apology or something?” 

“From you?” Steve cackles. “I mean, I don’t want you to pull a muscle…” 

Billy glares furiously at the ground and keeps smoking. It dawns on Steve that he’s serious. 

“ _Are_ you sorry?” he asks after a quiet moment. 

Billy gives a quick nod. It looks painful for him. Unbidden, Steve’s old frustration about that night wells up. 

“Well, that’s a relief. You really went ballistic, man. Going after Sinclair, scaring the crap out of those kids for no good reason. Not to mention _breaking_ _my face_.” 

“I know,” Billy mumbles. He doesn’t offer an explanation or defense. 

“You know I wasn’t messing with your sister, right?” 

“She’s not my sister,” Billy responds, as if reciting lines. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

Billy huffs, like he concedes the point. “Look, I don’t believe for a second you were _babysitting_. Those little freaks were up to some tricky bullshit. Maybe you were in on it, maybe you were just along for the ride.” He tosses his cigarette on the ground and grinds it under his boot. “But whatever the fuck went down, you were looking out for Max. I get that.” 

Steve’s eyes widen at this surprisingly accurate summary of the essentials of that night. A tightness in his chest, a clenched fist he’s been holding for a while, begins to relax. 

It feels good to have his role in everything that happened acknowledged by someone who isn’t in eighth grade. 

Who knew vindication from Billy Hargrove would be so…meaningful? 

“Don’t leave me hanging, man,” Billy prods. 

“Huh?” 

“Do you accept?”

“Accept what?”

He can practically hear Billy’s eyes rolling in his head. “My apology, dipshit.” 

Steve can’t help but laugh. “Only _you_ would beg for my forgiveness and insult me at the same time.” 

“Not begging,” Billy grumbles, though he might be pleased by Steve’s comment. Then he frowns, eye contact unsettling and sincere. “But I mean it, Harrington. I know I’m fucked up.” 

Those last words are vague and could refer to so many things; but the strong note of regret–– _sadness, grief_ ––rings clear as a bell. Steve suddenly wishes he could reassure Billy, but he’s not even sure how, or for what, or why. 

So he just says, “Yeah, Billy. I accept your apology.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve thinks he knows Billy. He's sort of right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for multiple violations of the "show, don't tell" rule, til the end. ;) 
> 
> Real detailed warnings in the end notes. Please do take precautions. <3 
> 
> Thanks for reading and leaving kudos/comments on my little story. :)

Following the middle school parking lot truce, Steve doesn’t think he and Billy are friends, but he’s almost positive they aren’t enemies either. 

So what are they? 

One uneasy apology can’t rewrite the whole high school script. They still give each other a lot of space, hang with different crowds. A tension lingers between them, like they’re both expecting something to happen at any moment. 

At first, Steve hopes they might re-converge at pickup duty. They could just...like...talk. Shoot the shit about the many subjects they have in common: Coach, the little shits, Tommy and Carol’s most irritating habits as a couple. Nothing too deep or demanding.

It’s crazy but it just might work.

He even picks up a pack of Billy’s cigarettes, to be hospitable and all. 

But day after day, Billy stays planted in the Camaro, inscrutable behind sunglasses, stereo at a volume that indicates _NO SOLICITATION_. He’s on a tight schedule, apparently: as soon as Max is in the passenger seat, he peels out of there. 

Steve would take it personally but for this momentous fact: they now acknowledge each other in the school hallways.

It’s subtle: the briefest of eye contact, near-imperceptible nods. Steve feels like they’re engaging in some secret code, one that he only half-understands. 

All he knows is, he craves _more_. 

Their new dynamic becomes _really_ apparent two weeks into the semester, when basketball starts up again. Coach notices immediately that Billy no longer avoids Steve like it’s his full-time job. 

“Took you two knuckleheads long enough,” he says and pairs them for warm-ups and drills. 

Compared to their early interactions on the court, Billy plays like a _gentleman_. Aggression-free. No mocking and shoving. No talking at all, honestly, except for the purposes of the game. 

No grinding. 

Turns out they make a pretty good team, anticipating one another’s moves, reading each other’s signals. Coach nods, satisfied. 

One afternoon in late January, when a quick pass from Billy results in Steve making an unlikely three-pointer, the whole team breaks into cheers. The triumph is contagious: everyone’s been playing better. Even Coach smiles, and Steve didn’t know his face could do that. 

Steve locks eyes with Billy, who flashes a rare grin and fucking _winks_. It feels like being at the top of a rollercoaster, right before the big plunge. 

In light of this and, well, _everything_ , Steve lives in terror of changing or––holy shit–– _showering_ next to Billy. 

_arms chest abs neck ass thighs skin back wet_

_cock_

_oh god_

He needn't worry. Billy seems to have developed an allergy to the locker room, or at least to sharing it with the team. Somehow he’s always in the gym before anyone, ready to go; and he often heads out after practice without hitting the showers. 

It’s all part of a larger pattern: the familiar swagger is there, but turned down several notches. Like maybe Billy is tired of putting in all that effort. What happened to the near-desperate need for attention? He never calls “skins” like a cocky son of a bitch anymore; no longer wastes everyone’s time with dumb trick shots. 

The shift makes Steve unaccountably curious. 

Is Billy finally chilling out, or is something _off_? 

He wonders if anyone else notices.

Billy might try and fly under everybody else’s radar, but he’s now a permanent fixture on Steve’s. 

Monster patrol fades from Steve’s schedule. He’s too exhausted from diazepam hangovers. And besides, he has a compelling subject available as part of his daily high school routine. Frankly, it’s more rewarding to monitor Billy than the monsters. 

He can actually _find_ Billy, for one. 

Lately, it feels like Billy is always around, lurking in the background or moving in his peripheral vision. 

And whenever Steve properly lays eyes on Billy, he feels it: a tug in his gut. An electricity in the air. An impulse to look longer than is polite. 

Whenever this happens to Steve with girls, it can only mean one thing. 

Whatever it means in regards to this situation between him and Billy Hargrove, Steve tries to take it one day at a time. Not leap to any wild conclusions. Stay cool. 

There's no hurry to jump into the deep end. He can wade in the shallows for a while. 

Watching Billy, playing basketball with him, and wondering. 

If he thinks about this whole thing too long, a drowning feeling comes over him, and he mentally scrambles back to safety, back to dry land. A place where there is no station wagon, no condoms and lube, no steely-eyed Mr. Hargrove throwing hands, and certainly no Billy Hargrove. 

No Billy Hargrove with his long eyelashes. No Billy Hargrove with his ass and thighs.

Those smooth, muscled legs. Not girlish, yet they remind Steve of the girls he dated before Nancy. Cheerleaders and volleyball players, solid and strong.

Thick flesh he could take in his hands, really hold onto… 

_Nope!_

_Stop thinking about Billy Hargrove’s thighs. Again._

If it weren’t for his mother’s pills, Steve wouldn’t sleep at all. 

* * *

One mild February afternoon as school lets out, Steve is smoking against his car. His eyes track Billy as he makes a fierce beeline to the Camaro, parked across the lot. Other students naturally step out of the way. 

It’s been a month and change since the week that changed everything: the gay sex, the asshole dad, the weird gossip, the surprise apology.

Five solid weeks of peaceful relations between the old guard and the new blood of Hawkins High. Plenty of time for Steve to become an amateur expert in all things Billy Hargrove. 

Steve’s alarm bells are going off right now. 

It occurs to Steve that he and Billy are in the same boat today: Dustin, Max, and the other gremlins are staying an extra 75 minutes at school for a special A/V project. It’s an awkward amount of time to kill for their chauffeurs, especially for a Thursday. 

Where is Billy going?

See, Steve can tell, _he can just tell_ , from Billy’s posture, the hang of his head, the way he revs the Camaro’s engine––

Billy’s upset. 

Worried? Freaked out?

Working himself up to something? 

Maybe Steve’s reading a lot into it, but he’s been studying the guy non-stop. 

Interpreting his body language on the court. 

Sometimes, Steve thinks he knows Billy better than he knows himself. 

He flicks his cigarette into a snowbank. 

* * *

Following someone by car is harder than it looks in the movies, especially when they drive like Billy Hargrove. 

_Slow down, jackass. You’re gonna get us both tickets._

Steve follows from as far a distance as possible, given the icy roads. The houses and trees are crusted with ice too. They’re in that dead zone of winter, when it’s been cold for months and there’s still months to go. 

In this cold place, Billy runs hot. And Steve finds himself zeroing in like a heat-seeking device. 

Eventually, the Camaro pulls over on a residential street, so the BMW does too, a half-block behind. 

It’s the Wheelers’ neighborhood, which confuses Steve at first, until he realizes Billy has parked in front of Kimberly Howard’s house. Steve’s been here a few times; Kimberly’s parents were big supporters of his grandfather’s campaign, back when Steve was small and got dragged to fundraisers and stuff. 

Saint Kim didn’t give Tammy the whole story, clearly. She acts all innocent, but she wants Billy just like everyone else. 

Billy must be here for an after-school quickie. 

Jealousy surges through Steve, a riptide that momentarily blurs his vision. He blinks back into focus. Billy sits patiently in his car, waiting for Kimberly to come home. 

The sight makes Steve furious. And confused. And a bit queasy. 

He smooths his hair, takes a deep breath. _This is totally pathetic._ He should get out of here, cool his heels somewhere while he waits for Dustin. 

Let Billy get his rocks off without Steve hanging around like a creep. 

He’s reaching for the steering wheel when a station wagon drives past. 

The station wagon that haunts Steve, he’s only seen once, at night. He’s not even sure of its color. And surely there are hundreds of station wagons in Hawkins, right?

Steve’s heart gallops in his chest as the station wagon slows and pulls up next to Billy’s car. 

He can see the driver, a large man, lean over and gesture forcefully at Billy. Even from a distance, even from the back, it’s obvious he’s angry. 

Then Steve gets a good look at the guy’s profile. 

That’s Mr. Howard. 

Kimberly’s dad. 

_Kimberly’s dad?!_

Steve tries to work out the implications of what he’s seeing; it feels like being asked to solve an absurdly long equation without scratch paper. 

Meanwhile, Billy exits his car. He opens the front passenger door of the station wagon and climbs in next to Mr. Howard. The door is still swinging closed when the wagon takes off, burning rubber. 

It should be kinda funny, a family car screeching its tires like that, like, _What’s the emergency? Late for the Little League game?_

Except Steve is filled with dread, as if Billy is a character in a horror movie and the audience is screaming, _Don’t go in there!_

Steve reaches for the keys in the ignition. 

* * * 

The station wagon leads Steve to a place that is familiar to him: Brimborn Steel Works, the abandoned steel mill on the edge of town. He placed it on his monster hunting itinerary because it looks like a prime location for supernatural shenanigans.

You don’t get more Hawkins than a dead factory with a huge empty door in the front, all haunted and decaying on the side of the road. 

Why did Mr. Howard bring Billy here?

Steve is parked across the way, with a good view of the whole scene. The station wagon pulls in behind a tangled overgrowth of trees and bushes. Now Mr. Howard and Billy get out and walk toward the mill's big, yawning entrance. 

Mr. Howard has Billy gripped by the arm. Not quite dragging him, but not letting him go free, either. 

It brings to mind a similar grip: Mr. Hargrove’s. 

Steve’s own fists open and close as the two disappear from view. 

What expression is on Billy’s face right now? Is he enraged? Or scared? Knowing Billy, it’s probably an acrid blend. 

That’s who Billy _is._

Steve doesn’t really understand what’s happening, but he understands what he has to do. 

It all feels so familiar: the pounding of his heart, the adrenaline singing under his skin. 

Steve gets out of his car, pops the trunk, and retrieves his nail bat. Just in case. 

Once he’s made the decision, the next step comes as naturally as breathing. He looks left and right, strikes across the road. This area is deserted at this time of day. At every time of day. The bat feels solid, reassuring in his hand. 

Within moments, he’s approaching the entrance to the steel mill, following the same path taken by Mr. Howard and Billy. 

Voices emerge faintly from within. It sounds like they’re arguing. 

Most drivers passing by would never guess a soul was here. 

Steve senses the space through the entrance is cavernous. It’s like stepping into a cold shadow. He tastes mold in the air. 

His eyes adjust, and he makes out the corpses of old machinery at rest, long abandoned. And light across the way––another doorway, smaller––Mr. Howard and Billy are through there.

Steve pads over to the next door, positions himself to peak around, and finds them in a small outdoor clearing behind this section of the mill. 

It’s hard to figure out what he’s seeing at first. His brain resists it. 

Mr. Howard, his tall, broad back to Steve. Those star quarterback shoulders are celebrated around town: they won Hawkins the 1961 state championship. A typical Hawkins dad in corduroys, snow boots, Land’s End parka. A typical Hawkins dad in every way, except… 

Except Billy Hargrove is kneeling on the ground in front of him. Billy Hargrove, dressed inappropriately for the weather in his winter uniform of hoodie and leather jacket. His jeans are wet from the ice, and he’s shivering, he’s _crying_ , looking up at Mr. Howard. Steve can’t see Mr. Howard’s face, but Billy resembles a wounded animal. 

“You stupid little slut,” Mr. Howard says conversationally. “You never learn, do you?”

“No, sir,” Billy murmurs, not a single note of defiance. It gives Steve chills. 

A shocking clap as Mr. Howard hits Billy, hard, almost knocking him over. 

“Did I give you permission to speak, fag?” Mr. Howard barks. Billy rights himself and shakes his head, eyes glassy, cheek red. 

Though he would deny it up and down, Steve has been speculating, for weeks and weeks, what Billy and the man in the station wagon do together. 

He never pictured it like this. 

“I’ll forgive you, if you can be a good boy for me now,” Mr. Howard says, voice dipped low. “Can you do that for me, Billy?” 

To Steve’s horror, the man unzips his coat and appears to be doing the same to his fly. Billy remains on his knees, face level with Mr. Howard’s crotch. 

Resigned. 

Steve twirls the nail bat in his hand. The next thing he knows, he’s right behind Mr. Howard, which is convenient for bringing the handle down, soundly, on the back of the man’s skull. 

There’s a _thunk_. Mr. Howard cries “Oh!” and drops heavily, revealing Steve to Billy. 

For an exquisitely long stretch of time, they gape at each other. Steve standing and Billy on the ground, the crumpled form of Mr. Howard between them. 

There’s no sound but their panting. 

Then Billy staggers to his feet, holding Steve’s gaze. His eyelashes are clumped together with tears, but he finally looks alive, if stunned. 

“ _The_ _fuck_ are you doing here?” he says. His voice is rough again, strong, Billy-like. 

There’s only one response Steve can think to provide, a question he simply _must_ ask. 

“Are you okay?” 

It’s not the right thing to say. 

“Are you shitting me?” Billy growls, offended. “I was about to make fifty bucks!”

“What?” 

“You crashed my party, Pretty Boy.” 

Before Steve can respond, Mr. Howard groans and squirms, causing both of them to jump about a foot in the air. 

Billy recovers first, looking from Steve to Mr. Howard to Steve again. 

“Hey, did he see you?” he demands, stalking around the large man and grabbing Steve by the wrist. 

“Yeah. I mean, no. I–I don’t think he saw me,” Steve answers, stumbling over the words. 

Billy’s hand is so warm. He’s squeezing _hard_ , grinding Steve’s tendons and bones together. 

“Good. Come on, we gotta go,” Billy says, tugging him along. 

Steve allows himself to be carried by this new, powerful tide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: internalized homophobia, homophobic slurs, stalking behaviors, implied sex work between adult and minor, and abusive sexual situation/violence between adult and minor (no sex depicted).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unprecendented conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you hate it when Real Life gets in the way of you updating your self-indulgent 1980s homo-drama fantasy/therapy? 
> 
> Usual warnings apply, esp. internalized homophobia, homophobic slurs, references to abusive adults, and young traumatized people generally not having the healthiest take on things. But they're trying. <3

Billy herds Steve out of Brimborn Steel Works like a determined sheepdog.

“Are you parked around here?” he asks, striding past Mr. Howard’s car. 

“Up the road,” Steve nods, pointing. As they cross, Steve glances back uncertainly at the dark cave of the mill. “Um. Should we…?” 

“He’ll be fine. Not the first time that meathead’s been knocked out.”

Steve is not reassured. He tries not to hyperventilate. 

“Never shuts up about all the hits he took playing ball for Hawkins,” Billy continues as they get in the BMW, his eyes roaming over the dash and out the window, anywhere but Steve’s face. “Loser prolly wets himself whenever ‘Glory Days’ comes on the radio.” 

_He’s nervous,_ Steve realizes. 

Steve is nervous too. Even without taking into consideration the recent events that have brought them to this moment, there is something unsettling about having Billy Hargrove in his front passenger seat. Steve is accustomed to Nancy’s birdlike fierceness or Dustin’s awkward pubescence. Billy occupies the space differently, all sinewy legs and arms, pungent cologne and skittish energy. 

It’s like Steve has allowed a big, wild cat into his car. 

Billy sniffs, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, still avoiding Steve’s eyes. “The hell you waiting for? Drive.” 

Steve obediently turns on the engine, blasting warm air from the vents. But he finds he can’t get in gear, resting his hands lightly on the wheel. 

_Remember, they’re more frightened of you than you are of them,_ something tells him. And maybe that’s not true of tigers, but it seems quite possible about this asshole right here, who looms so large and mysterious in Steve’s mind but who is really just a _kid_ , a year younger than Steve. 

This kid who, not so long ago, was crying on the ground, who still has bloodshot eyes and the ghost of a handprint across his cheek. 

“What did you mean about making fifty bucks?” Steve blurts, because he laughs in the face of danger or is just a massive dumbass. 

At last, Billy makes painfully blunt eye contact. He appears to be at a loss for words, almost betrayed, red-rimmed blue eyes round with surprise, even though _he_ was the one who first used those incriminating words out loud. 

Does Billy think Steve is too stupid to remember? Or to understand what was happening? 

“He was _hurting_ you,” Steve hears himself say from a deep, unfathomable place. “What else was he gonna do to you?” 

Two months ago, Steve would’ve expected Billy to murder him right about now. 

Two months ago, nothing about this situation would’ve made sense anyway. 

Funny how rapidly your perspective on the whole world can change—but the monsters already taught Steve that. He knows what it’s like to pivot on a dime, to have your brain turned inside out by impossibilities unfolding right before your eyes. 

A suspenseful moment passes while Steve examines Billy's face and bearing for signs of homicidal rage, wondering idly if he’ll have to defend himself. 

But the expression where Billy lands is simply bone-tired. World-weary. 

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, no real bite. “You don't know what you’re talking about.” 

The only other young people Steve has ever seen looking so old are Jane Hopper and Will Byers. What the hell is Billy doing? Why did he put himself at Mr. Howard’s mercy that way? Especially when his father already…? 

“Billy, you—that—it’s not worth fifty bucks,” Steve stammers, struggling to understand. 

_You’re worth more._

Billy grins meanly, a nastier edge showing. “What would _you_ charge to get smacked around and fucked in the throat, Pretty Boy? I didn’t realize the richest kid in town knew so much about making money on his knees.” 

Steve doesn’t need a mirror to know these words trigger a dam breaking beneath his face, hot blush spreading down his neck. _Seeing_ Billy’s hidden side has been overwhelming enough; hearing him talk about it, so crudely and casually, is a whole new level. 

_He’s trying to scare you._

“You know I don’t,” Steve tells him earnestly, somehow finding the courage to not look away. “But I’m, like, concerned that you do? I swear, Billy, I just wanna help.”

Steve may be out of his depth, but he’s keeping his head above water. Just barely. 

“You want to help,” Billy repeats, slowly, like he’s sounding out the words. “Why?” 

It’s as good a time as any to ‘fess up—to some things. 

“I accidentally saw you get into Mr. Howard’s car over winter break.” Billy visibly startles at this, so Steve pushes ahead quickly. “I didn’t know it was him, but I figured out that you were…I haven’t told anyone, Billy. I wouldn’t. I promise.” 

Billy takes that in, his energy downshifting a bit. He’s not exactly happy but not unhinged with fury either. 

“Then I saw you leave school today, and you seemed so _upset_ . Like something was off. I know it’s weird, and we’re not friends but I was...worried. I guess I’ve been worried about you for weeks. I mean, I met your _dad_. I can’t believe you have to live with that dickhead, especially if you’re...um...” 

Billy frowns as Steve trails off, not wanting to finish that sentence. He realizes he has no idea what words to use. He’s been assuming Billy is at least a bit gay; the introduction of money is confusing. 

“So the truth is, I followed you,” Steve says, forging on with what he’s certain about. “When you parked in front of the Howard’s, I thought you were going to hook up with Kimberly.” 

Billy gives a quick, dry, humorless laugh. 

“Jealous?” he asks. 

Steve’s blush, which had ebbed, returns with a vengeance. 

“I was about to leave,” he insists weakly, “when I saw that station wagon again. It pulled right up to you, and it was _Mr. Howard._ Billy…he seemed really pissed off. I could tell even from far away. I dunno, it gave me a really bad feeling. So I _had_ to keep following. I mean. What if you needed backup?” 

Steve stops, because everyone knows what happened next. 

Billy’s eyebrows, which have been climbing incredulously throughout this explanation, now relax. He runs a hand through his curly hair and sighs, working his way through some private calculus.

For Steve’s part, it’s a relief to have unburdened himself, to finally merge his strange new reality with someone’s else’s, even if that person is the very one he’s been obsessing over. 

Steve can sense the moment a decision has been made. 

“Shit, Harrington, you’re an even bigger freak than I realized,” Billy declares. Amazingly, it doesn’t come across as derogatory. He points at the dashboard clock. “We gotta pick up the nerd squad soon. And we _cannot_ be here when the Quarterback gets moving. You drive to the middle school, and I’ll explain a few things.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Maybe it’s good Steve is driving. It provides an excuse for not focusing on Billy for the next stretch of time. Looking closely at Billy right now would be similar to looking into the sun: too bright, too painful, too real. Scorching. 

Billy cuts to the chase as they begin their route to the middle school: Mr. Howard pays good money for “stress relief,” which apparently involves roughing up Billy Hargrove. 

“Stress relief? What's so stressful for a guy like him?” Steve asks, trying to conceal his horror by matching Billy’s bland tone. 

“This may be hard for King Steve to imagine,” Billy answers, pulling a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. “But this town sucks for queers.” 

“You can’t smoke in here,” Steve says automatically. His dad says it hurts the car’s resale value. For a moment, Billy tenses like he wants to fight. But then he shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets, along with the cigarettes. 

_Huh._

“So Mr. Howard is…” Steve prompts. 

“A huge faggot,” Billy confirms. “So hungry for dick. Belongs in the Castro, strutting around in leather chaps and a muscle tee, chasing every fresh twink off the bus.” 

Steve isn’t entirely sure what that means. 

“But instead, he’s here, in fucking _Hawkins_ ,” Billy continues with bitter amusement, staring out the window at the offending landscape of farmland and woods. “Cow shit capital of the world. Chained to four kids, a mortgage, and one pussy for the rest of time. Trust me, you’d be wound up too.” 

That sounds really shitty, but Steve still doesn’t get why Mr. Howard is such a prick, or why Billy should be the target for his frustrations. But he’s not sure how to articulate those questions, so instead he asks how Billy’s arrangement with Mr. Howard got started. Billy takes obvious delight in sharing that the Howards and the Hargrove-Mayfields attend Hawkins’ Catholic parish. 

“I caught him watching me during Mass,” Billy divulges, and Steve can hear him smiling at the memory. “Every hymn, all the sheep were glued to their hymnals, but not Mr. Howard. Always looking right at yours truly. Went on for _weeks_. So one day during coffee hour, I saw him go down to the basement. There’s a men’s room down there no one uses. He was waiting for me. He gave me a twenty, and I gave him the best handjob of his life.” 

“Wait, how?” Steve is flabbergasted. 

“Want me to show you? Right now? Might be dangerous.” 

“No! I mean, how did you…how did you know what he wanted?” Steve clarifies desperately. He’s sweating in his winter coat. 

He endures Billy’s cool blue scrutiny. Then:

“Picked up on some things back home, Pretty Boy.” He must mean California. “Turns out queers are queers, even in Indiana.” 

“But _why_?” 

_Bam!_ Billy slams his fist against the glove compartment, causing it to pop open. Stupid car shit—papers, pens, Mentos—tumble into his lap. 

“I need the money, okay!” he bellows. 

“Okay!” Steve yells back, then deliberately tempers his voice. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to come at you with the questions.” 

They don’t speak for several beats. Billy sullenly cleans up the mess while Steve maneuvers through familiar streets, dumbstruck by the unfamiliarity of this conversation. Has such an exchange of words ever taken place between two teenage guys in Hawkins, Indiana, before? There is no template for this, no afterschool special, no brochure in the guidance counselor’s office.

Steve’s universe has never had room for someone like Billy Hargrove, never could’ve even imagined him; and yet here he is, seething and undeniable, breathing heavily through his nose less than a foot away. 

They’re pulling into the middle school parking lot when Billy resumes speaking, words gravelly, like he’s wrung out again.

“Look, you met my dad. You saw what he’s like. Believe me, it’s a helluva lot worse inside the house. I gotta get out of there. I’m saving money.” 

Does Billy plan to run away? The thought fills Steve with peculiar longing. Where would Billy go? When would he leave? He’s only a junior. What about graduating high school? 

It seems unlikely that Billy would appreciate this line of inquiry, so Steve just nods solemnly, hoping the silence conveys the message that yes, he absolutely believes Billy’s dad is really that big of a shithead. 

Steve pulls the car into his usual spot, mind abuzz with yet more information than he can process. Middle schoolers are drifting around, waiting for their rides, posturing and laughing too loud and generally trying very hard. He desires, irrationally, to protect every one of them from all monsters, interdimensional and otherwise. 

Now that he can no longer avoid it, Steve looks over at Billy, who’s looking back plainly, openly. All signs of trouble have faded: eyes dry, skin unblemished, smirk firmly in place. 

No one would ever guess what just happened. 

A question occurs to Steve that probably won’t enrage Billy. He might even take it as a compliment. 

“Why aren’t you threatening me?” 

“What now?” 

“Shouldn’t you be, like, slamming my head into the window?” Steve offers his best Hargrove impression. “Like, ‘If you tell anyone what you saw, I’ll fucking destroy you, Harrington,’ blah, blah, blah?” 

“Blah, blah, blah?” Billy echoes, laughing. It’s that genuine laugh again, one that Steve has glimpsed here and there. It changes the guy’s whole demeanor, makes him look younger, warmer, almost like a different person. 

Steve smiles. “You fill in the blanks, you’re the expert at threats.” 

Billy gives the impression of actually considering the question. Steve inhales the foreign scents in his car while he waits: another guy’s cologne, aftershave, nicotine, the lingering aftertaste of distress. 

“Nah, you’re all right, King Steve,” Billy concludes. “If you wanted to fuck me over, you would’ve done it by now. Instead you try and save my ass. That counts for something, even if I didn’t really need it.”

That last point about Billy not needing saving seems highly debatable, but there’s no sense in arguing. Not while pleasure grips Steve like a sudden fever. It’s good—very, very good—to receive Billy’s praise and his—his _trust_? Is that what’s happening? Billy has handed something very fragile and delicate to Steve, acting like it’s no big deal, but Steve knows the truth, that it’s a _very_ big deal. 

Steve has the distinct sense that Billy Hargrove does not trust many people. 

“Christ, don’t get all moony on me, Harrington,” Billy admonishes, sounding annoyed. “And think fast. My step-sister and your hobbit will be here in thirty seconds. What’s our cover for picking ‘em up together in your car?” 


End file.
